


By Hand

by pendrecarc



Category: The Pushcart War - Jean Merrill
Genre: Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:48:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendrecarc/pseuds/pendrecarc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you look at your hands, you remember many things you would prefer to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dayadhvam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dayadhvam/gifts).



> I had never read _The Pushcart War_ before I was matched to [Dayadhvam](http://dtriad.tumblr.com/post/63503085689/mobile) on a completely different fandom, but I'm so glad I saw this prompt--the book is utterly charming!
> 
> Thank you so much for introducing it to me, and I hope this will adequately ruin your childhood.

How well do you know the city?

Start asking that question, and you will get all sorts of answers. The tourists will tell you how many visits they have made, which shows they are planning to see, and what the most interesting sights are. Ask your cab driver and she will tell you she knows how to get you anywhere, just give her an address. (And make sure you tip!) Ask a banker and he will tell you he knows the important parts, and then he will tell you not to bother him when he is busy. Then he will go back to shouting into his phone. Ask the man the banker just bought his coffee from, and he will tell you—

Well, this is where it begins to get interesting.

The man with the coffee cart is named Nadeem, and if you want to stand next to him in the cold and you do not talk to him while he takes orders, he will tell you all about it between pulling shots of espresso.

Nadeem’s cart has been on the corner of 25th and Lexington for six—no, seventeen years now. It belonged to his uncle first, but his uncle was working one afternoon several winters ago when an unexpected blizzard hit the city, shattering snow accumulation records and flabbergasting forecasters. All the weathermen had predicted a solid week of clear skies, bright sunlight, and highs in the low forties—Larry Gilbert of QRST went so far as to say that Thursday would be perfect for feeding squirrels in the park—and New Yorkers who had made plans for nice weather were very upset. Several nut carts had gone out of their usual way to station themselves around Central Park in anticipation of the squirrel feeding frenzy, a group of Julliard students had planned a flash mob performance of the Nutcracker in Times Square, and Mrs. Dashwood of East Elmhurst had even put her prize-winning potted amaryllis out on the balcony to get a little fresh air. These particulars are all a matter of public record, because the people involved were so annoyed at having their plans destroyed by several feet of snow that they wrote strongly-worded posts in the QRST weather forums. A flustered Larry Gilbert responded by telling the dance students Times Square was probably not the best location for ballet performance, what with the traffic and the crowded sidewalks, and telling Mrs. Dashwood she should know better than to put her amaryllis out in cold weather during its flowering period, snow or no snow. The forum administrator froze the thread before Larry could reply to the nut cart peddlers’ complaints.

No one in New York was more upset than Nadeem’s uncle. When the blizzard hit, he was pouring an intricate latte depicting the Battle of Bleeker Street for a customer who was fond of local history. He was so immersed in his work that he failed to notice his customer—and everyone else—diving for cover. Before he had put the finishing touches on the last cantaloup, the snow had piled up so high around the coffee cart that there was no hope of moving it.

They found Nadeem’s uncle the next day, huddled in a little igloo built up around the cart. He had kept warm enough to survive only by drinking pot after pot of hot tea and coffee. By the time rescue crews dug him out, he had consumed so much caffeine that he spent the next three days vibrating nonstop. When at last he made a full recovery, he swore off tea and coffee for life, gave the cart to his nephew, and started a small stationers in Queens.

Nadeem will tell you this if you ask him, but your question is not about his uncle. It is about how well he knows the city. “Pretty well,” he will tell you. “I suppose I know this corner as well as anyone, because I come here every day. But there are people who know the rest of the city much better than I do. Why are you asking?”

You are asking because of the map you have in your pocket, which you are certain would tell you something very important if you could only understand it. When you unfold the map and start to hand it to Nadeem, he will say, “Oh! Do you want to go to Times Square, Broadway, or Central Park?” When you explain that you are not a tourist, he will say, “I misunderstood. So you are from New York, then? How well do _you_ know the city?”

The answer is that you are not sure, but you will not say this to Nadeem. Instead you will tell him, “Not well enough,” and you will give him the map.

He will frown at the map for a few minutes while a line starts to form behind his cart. “This is very interesting,” he will say at last. “What are all these red dots? There must be thousands of them. And there are some gold dots, too.” You will tell him you do not know, either, and he will offer you a free coffee while he tries to think. “Or maybe you want tea instead? Everyone wants coffee, but I have a fine selection of teas ready to be brewed.”

For black teas, he has: Assam, Ceylon, Darjeeling, Earl Grey, English Breakfast, Lapsang Souchong, Masala Chai, Pu-erh, and Yunnan Gold. For green teas, he has: Genmaicha, Gunpowder, Jasmine, Longjing, Monkey Tea, and Sencha. He will start to tell you about his tisanes and his white teas, too, but then when he folds up the map to keep from spilling hot water all over it, he will notice the words written in the corner.

Someone has written _By Hand_ along the edge of your map.

“What is that?” he will ask.

You do not know this, either. Your palms will begin to itch.

“Well,” he will say, “I do not know what all those dots mean or what all those places have in common, but I can tell you what _By Hand_ means. I think you should go to Tompkins Square Park. Do you know where that is?”

He will show you on the map, just to be sure you do not get lost, and then he will offer you a steaming cup of Yunnan tea. “To keep warm,” he will say. “Good luck!”

When you get to Tompkins Square Park, sit down and enjoy your drink. It is a cold day, and there is a nice, empty bench right next to an interesting statue. Have a good look at that statue while you sip your tea. If you sit there long enough, a very old man will come up next to you, pushing a cart filled with all kinds of fascinating odds and ends. He will sit down beside you and say, “Do you know who that is?”

The statue is of an old woman, and the inscription at the base reads _By Hand_ , just like your map. You should most likely remember who she is—the city does not give statues to just anyone, after all—but when he asks you, you will just shake your head.

“That is General Anna,” the very old man will tell you. “And this was the very first statue of a pushcart peddler ever set up in a city park. I think it is a good thing that you have come to pay your respects.”

If you look up at the statue from exactly the right angle, General Anna’s eyes seem to be looking right back at you. You will stare up at her for a few minutes until the very old man says, “I see you prefer tea, not coffee. That is an excellent choice. I have a charcoal burner right here on my cart, and I used to make a cup for a friend of mine all the time when we worked on the same street.” The man will lean closer to you so he is looking right into your face, and he will straighten the lapels of his coat. “This friend of mine was in the secondhand clothes line. I bought this coat from him. This was many years ago, before he died, but the coat is still in excellent condition. Just like I am. Some things are built to last, you know?” He will sigh a little, looking sad. “Or maybe you do not. When you are finished with your tea, you should come with me.”

If you ask him where you are going, he will lean over to tap a spot on your map, right next to one of the gold dots. “We are going to see the Pushcart Queen.”

And if you happen to glance up at the statue of General Anna right at that moment, it will look almost as though she is smiling at you. General Anna looks like a very kind old woman, but this is not a very kind smile.

The very old man will walk even more quickly than you, though he is pushing a full cart the whole time, and if you ask him about it he will say, “Yes, people often ask me how I have stayed so active and healthy. The answer is that I get so much fresh air. If more people slept outside, more people would be active and healthy long into their old age, just like I am.”

It is, of course, impolite to ask someone how old he is, but if you are very curious, go ahead and ask this man. He will only shake his head and say, “Much too old to still be doing this.” And if you open up the map and ask him how well he knows the city, he will say, “Very well. Well enough to know what those dots mean, certainly. But then I have been pushing my cart for a very long time. A very long time, indeed.” He will look sideways at you as he says this. Something about his eyes will remind you very strongly of General Anna’s smile. It is probably better if you do not ask him any more questions.

The Pushcart Queen is named Alice Myles, and she works in a shop six blocks from Tompkins Square Park. She is a short woman with strong, clever hands, because she has spent so many years making and repairing pushcarts for all the peddlers of New York—the coffee makers, the hot-dog vendors, the sunglass and souvenir hawkers, the fruit-and-vegetable sellers, and naturally the large contingent of dealers in dried peas and high-quality pins who satisfy the demands of tourists, schoolchildren, and participants in historical reenactments. She is of course very busy with keeping all of these pushcarts in fine working order, but one might say her primary occupation is really keeping all the pushcart peddlers in fine working order. She takes this responsibility very seriously because it has been handed down to her from a long line of Pushcart Kings.

When you come into her shop, a little bell dangling over the door will announce you and the old man. You should take a good look around, because this is a remarkable opportunity—not many people except the pushcart peddlers even know that New York has a Pushcart Queen, and even fewer people have seen the inside of her shop. It is a true curiosity. There are neat piles of plywood and lumber and metal siding, the strong smell of glue and sawdust and axle-grease, tools hanging from every inch of the walls, stacks and stacks of carefully-organized cart wheels of all sizes. That is to be expected. What you probably do not expect to find there, though, is the small bouquet of fresh daffodils on the counter. There is a large crocheted dartboard tacked to the wall in one corner and a signed photo of the actress Wenda Gambling in another.

Your palms will start to hurt.

When the bell stops ringing, the Pushcart Queen will come into the shop from a back room. She will be wearing a sturdy pair of safety goggles and have grease all over her hands, because as usual she is hard at her work. When she sees you and the very old man, she will take the goggles off and say, “Mr. Jerusalem, how nice to see you.”

The very old man, whose name is of course Mr. Jerusalem, will reply, “Look who I have found, Alice. I thought I should bring him back here.”

“Ah,” Alice will say, looking at you critically, as though you have somehow disappointed her. “I thought he might have lost his way again. He gets a little confused, sometimes. How many do we have today?”

She will take the map out of your hands. They will start shaking, maybe from the cold, maybe from nerves—but you are never scared, so that must not be it. People are always afraid of you, not the other way around. You may not remember very much, but you do remember this. The corollary to the Large Object Theory of History is that the best way to keep yourself from being afraid is to be the most frightening person in the room.

She will unfold the map carefully and run an expert eye over all the dots. “Hmm,” she will say, “you are still coming along very slowly. You know you will only be finished when you have used all 18,991 pins—and they must each be done by hand.”

“There is no use in rushing him,” Mr. Jerusalem will say. “This takes a great deal of time and care, Alice.”

“Mr. Jerusalem understands how this needs to be done,” Alice will tell you. “You should listen to him. After all, we would not be here if he had not shown us what to do, would we?” Mr. Jerusalem will smile at her, a very sad smile that shows rather too many teeth for such a nice old man. “He knows the city better than any of us, because he has been here so much longer than any of us. He knows how the city works. He knows what the city wants. How long _exactly_ have you been pushing your cart, Mr. Jerusalem?”

The smile will get a little bit wider and a little bit sadder. It seems odd that his teeth should be so sharp. “Much too long, Alice, if this is what the pushcart peddlers have come to, relying on a man like him to keep us safe and in business. Sometimes I think Maxie Hammerman should not have listened to me when I told him how we could put an end to the Pushcart War.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Jerusalem,” Alice will say. She is always very matter-of-fact when she talks about this—as I have said, she takes her responsibilities very seriously. “This was the only way. And I think this is good for him. He spent too many years sending his trucks all over New York, running his business right over the top of all the pedestrians and drivers and bicyclists. And all the pushcart peddlers. But not once did he stop to talk to them or even think about them. You said yourself he never spoke to his father before he died.”

“That is true,” Mr. Jerusalem will say. “You should have talked to him, Louis.”

“You should have,” Alice will agree. “You should have talked to the pushcart peddlers, too. Talking is always better than fighting.”

“Well, he has plenty of time to talk to them now.”

Alice will reach for your hands and turn them over so she can inspect your palms. “Hmm,” she will say, looking down at the high-quality pins you have driven deep underneath the skin. Sometimes you forget how much they hurt, but when you look at them you remember. When you look at your hands, you remember many things you would prefer to forget. “That is enough for today, Mr. Livergreen. We will start again tomorrow.”


End file.
